


Unworthiness

by sock_bealady



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Public Sex, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_bealady/pseuds/sock_bealady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gods were satisfied with Lief's sacrifice at Uppsala, but the priests saw fit to punish Ragnar.  There is no harsher punishment than guilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unworthiness

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings and the tags. Also, please note that underage characters are present for the nonconsensual content. Though they do not participate in any way, please do not read if you will be squicked or triggered.
> 
> There are gaps in my History Channel education. This fic is not so much "researched" as "wildly speculated," and I've probably drastically overestimated the role and power of the Uppsala priests. Roll with it.

When the impromptu assembly finally dispersed, Athelstan stumbled out of the house and into the night, shaking off every hand on him without noticing which ones meant to comfort and which to chastise. He gasped at the fresh air as if he were drowning, or as if a noose around his neck had suddenly been cut. He had to keep moving. He couldn’t look back at the seer, at Lief, at _Ragnar._ His stride as he made for the woods was too uncoordinated to be called a run but covered the ground all the same. He reached the edge of the clearing and crashed through the underbrush until the old growth hid every human habitation from view. 

He stopped only when his lungs began to ache and caught himself against a moss-covered trunk. He could scarcely see through the tears. His hands were trembling and he could not still them. It struck him anew, as devastating as the moment he’d first realized it: Ragnar wanted him killed. After everything, he was still . . . nothing.

And now it was worse. Now a good man—a man who was almost a _friend_ \--would have to die in his place, and for what? For gods? For priests? For Ragnar’s promised sons?

He closed his eyes and saw the slave girl at Haraldson’s funeral, her lifeblood pouring down over her dress like spilled wine. He heard again Bjorn’s callous words. _”It’s only death . . .”_

Just death. Just a slave girl. Just a slave like him.

“Athelstan!” Running footsteps approached. That voice belonged to the person he least wanted to speak to. Without turning, he pushed himself away from the tree and forced himself to keep walking, his feet catching on roots and rocks he could barely see. “Athelstan, wait!” Ragnar overtook him easily, but instead of stopping him, he pushed past and walked backwards in front of him, keeping pace. “Where are you going?”

Athelstan shoved past him. “What does it matter?”

Ragnar stared after him. He was angry. Athelstan was angrier. “So, what, you’re just going to run away? Like a frightened child?”

“So what if I am?” Athelstan whirled and glared at him. “You said once that you wouldn’t stop me if I ran.”

“And _you_ said you weren’t interested in running, so I suppose times change.”

Having his words thrown back in his face caused Athelstan to lose his last shred of control. Snarling, he grabbed a half-rotted branch and spun at Ragnar, swinging a weapon for the first time in his life. Ragnar caught his wrist and it was as if he’d swung his arm into a stone pillar. Without hesitation, the earl took him by the throat and slammed him into a tree trunk so hard his teeth rattled. Ragnar glared at him from a foot away and Athelstan . . . Athelstan slumped. His legs buckled and he would have fallen had Ragnar not hastily released his throat and wrist and seized his tunic instead. “What did you think was going to happen?” he whispered.

Pain abruptly cut through the anger in Ragnar’s face. “I tried not to think about it,” he said quietly. He hesitated a moment, then released Athelstan and stepped back. Athelstan rubbed his neck, not ready to forgive, but not ready to hit him again either. He forced a little more strength into his voice.

“When were you planning on telling me?”

Ragnar managed a bitter half-smile. “At home before the hearth when I told you about Uppsala. Then on the journey here, then after the first night of the festival. Yesterday when I showed you the animals. Something always stopped me.” He looked away, then seemed to compose himself. His face stilled and his shoulders stiffened, a look Athelstan thought of as _putting on the earl._ “Come back to camp. I’ll see to it that you’re not bothered. You needn’t speak to anyone if you don’t want to. But, the sacrifices are in the morning, and you _will_ be there to witness.”

Athelstan leaned against the tree for support. “I can’t.”

“You will.”

“Why? Why must I see that?”

Ragnar smiled without mirth. He stepped close, crowding Athelstan once more. His hand darted out to catch Athelstan’s wrist and turn it up, exposing the little silver cross. “Because, _priest,_ for all your Christian talk, you don’t know what it looks like when a man dies for you. You ought to.”

There was no arguing with him after that.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Athelstan thought he wouldn’t sleep a wink, but he must have. He remembered the dreams. Most prominent was the one where Lief hung crucified and bleeding while Ragnar pleaded for mercy from the next cross over.

And, he remembered waking to a hand on his shoulder. While Athelstan gasped and shook off the lingering dream, Ragnar jerked his head, his face unreadable. “Get up and dress. We’re needed in the temple.”

Athelstan swallowed. The door behind Ragnar was open. The forest beyond was dark, without even a hint of predawn light. His heart, which had begun to slow with the departure of the nightmare, picked up speed once more. “It cannot possibly be time, yet.”

Ragnar looked away and his fingers tightened infinitesimally. “No. The priests have demanded a private audience to discuss my . . . insolence. Best not to keep them waiting.”

Athelstan sat bolt upright. “You mean that this is about me.”

“After a fashion.”

“I don’t understand. I thought the matter was settled. I thought . . .”

“That it would end with Lief?” Ragnar snorted. “A reparative measure—a stopgap to preserve the appropriate number of sacrifices. The priests have not begun to punish me yet. Get dressed.” Athelstan reached for his tunic, but Ragnar caught his wrist. “You have to wear this.” He held out a set of undyed clothes.

Athelstan did not take them. “That’s what _they_ wear. For the . . .”

“It’s just a formality.” Ragnar pushed the garments into his chest, then stretched out his arms. For the first time, Athelstan noticed that he wore the same sort of rough clothes. That made him feel a little better. It kept his hands from shaking as he pulled on the long tunic and pants. Ragnar rose and jerked his head for Athelstan to follow. Athelstan couldn’t think of anything he’d less like to do, but he forced himself to scramble after him. The moon had set and the night was still. The revelry of past days had faded as the appointed end drew nigh. The mood now was solemn and contemplative. Many were awake and standing like sentinels against the trees, but none spoke. 

Athelstan hurried to keep up. Every time he got within a few feet of Ragnar, the other man strode a little faster. At last, Athelstan gave up and spoke louder than he wanted to. “What is going to happen?”

Ragnar glanced at him, cold eyes looking out of a still face. “How am I to know? Perhaps they just want to scold me some more.”

“They don’t need secret meetings or ritual clothes to do that.”

Ragnar snorted. “No, I suppose not.” His eyes found Athelstan’s again and whatever he saw in his face, it made him soften a little. “You have nothing to fear. This is about my crime, not yours.” He looked away and his face hardened once more. “But, you’re right, they mean to exact some vengeance on me, and whatever it is, it will not be pleasant. Does that please you?”

Athelstan ground his teeth as some of his earlier anger returned. It loosened his tongue. “The church teaches that there is redemption in justified suffering. It can save the soul.”

The earl rolled his eyes. “And you wonder why we don’t want your madman god here.”

Athelstan did not get the chance to respond. As they neared the temple steps, a shadow detached itself from the trees. Ragnar saw it and rounded on it, but it merely stopped and held out a hand. “Athelstan.” His breaths came quicker as Arne stepped forward into a wash of torchlight. Ragnar closed some of the distance between them and angled his shoulder so that he could easily step in front of him, but there was no need. While Athelstan dropped his gaze to the forest floor, Arne stared at him with intent, if wet, eyes. “It’s not your fault.” Athelstan’s eyes snapped up and Arne held them. “He . . . he wants me to tell you that. That it’s not your fault.” Arne stared at him, too much a warrior to weep, and gave him a firm nod. Ragnar relaxed fractionally.

Athelstan swallowed. “Thank you,” he croaked, “Tell him ‘thank you.’”

Ragnar’s face still revealed nothing. “Let’s go.” Athelstan followed him, climbing the steps of the temple despite what felt like lead weights in his stomach.

The interior was lit with many braziers. Once his eyes adjusted to the glare, Athelstan realized that calling the audience “private” was overstating it somewhat. A dozen priests were present, menacing in their white robes and black paint. But, Ragnar’s family was there as well—Rollo on one side of the aisle, Lagertha and the children on the other. The adults’ faces were just as preternaturally still as Ragnar’s. The children looked as apprehensive as Athelstan felt.

In the open space before the pool, the priests had raised a table like an altar. They stood around it in a silent half circle. Ragnar fell in beside Athelstan, urging him forward with his simple presence. When they were level with the statue of Thor, Ragnar paused and put a hand on his shoulder, urging him to kneel. The northman did not stay beside him, though; as Athelstan dropped to one knee, he advanced a few steps more, placing himself at the center of their ring before kneeling also.

The earl said nothing but held his head high, staring at the priest at the center—the one who had questioned Athelstan. Clearly, he was waiting for them to speak first. The long silence felt like a power play. At last, the high priest spoke. “Ragnar Lothbrok.” Ragnar inclined his head and Athelstan could picture his half-mocking smile. The priest’s face twitched. “You have corrupted this hallowed ground with an impure offering—an insult to the gods and to every true sacrifice that has ever set foot here.”

Athelstan kept his head low, but some instinct made his eyes dart from side to side. There were men waiting in the wings, he realized—not priests, but armed men dressed in black and lurking in shadows. His breath came a little faster. “Never in our long years of service has such a thing been done,” the priest continued, “Sacrifices have been known to turn away in cowardice, but no lord has ever been so foolish as to do what you have done, Earl Ragnar. No one has ever brought us a wholly unwilling sacrifice, led along by deceit. None have ever been so arrogant.”

Any vindication Athelstan might have felt at the priest’s words was undercut by his sudden realization that Ragnar bore no weapons. He thought little of it until he glanced to either side and realized that Rollo and Lagertha were similarly unarmed.

“Begging the gods’ pardon,” Ragnar was saying in a tone of false patience, “But, I do not believe I was arrogant.”

“You believe!” The priest thundered, “What would you know of belief, Ragnar Lothbrok? You who claim kinship to Odin himself but cannot be bothered to give him the service he is due? You who offer with one hand and steal with the other?”

“I would no more steal from the gods than they would steal from me.”

Athelstan closed his eyes at the barbed comment. From Lagertha’s hiss of breath, he was not the only one worried by Ragnar’s boldness. 

“Have you no more to say for yourself?”

“What is there to say? I thought that my friend was ready to put aside his old faith and depart for Valhalla. I thought we might feast there together one day. It was, I would say, an honest mistake.”

That was the voice Ragnar used when he was lying.

To take his mind off of his growing anxiety, he scanned the room more closely. In the far corner, he noticed the seer of Kattegat, almost invisible in his dark robes. It was hard to tell with such a disfigured face, but he thought the man’s expression was regretful.

The high priest gave a grin that was more a baring of teeth than an actual smile. “You are two-faced and you are cruel. You wished to be seen offering what is precious to you, but you don’t wish to part with it. So, if the gods reject your offering, you count it no fault of yours. You want their blessing, but you are unwilling to pay.”

“I have paid.” Ragnar’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Lief and I were children together. We fought together in the shield wall from the time we were barely men. I will pay what is owed.”

“We have heard of the warrior’s offering. It was a noble deed, but an offshoot of _his_ honor, not yours. You would not have parted with him or any of your folk. You cling to their lives as if you own them.” Ragnar did not respond. His shoulders were stiff. The high priest approached and paced a few steps back and forth. “So, what are we to do with Ragnar Lothbrok and his unworthy offering? If you had brought us rancid grain or a rotting goat, you would be made to eat of its foulness to truly feel the dishonor you bring the gods. But you, Ragnar, you bring us an unwilling man. What are we to do with that?”

The men were moving closer, encircling them. Ragnar’s back was as straight as a spear. Perhaps he was finally realizing that, whatever he’d envisioned, the priests had something else in mind. “I welcome any judgment the gods see fit to lay on _me._ ” It wasn’t until his careful emphasis on the last word that Athelstan realized he was afraid, and not for himself.

The priest folded his arms. “Very well.” He turned to the waiting warriors. “Seize him.” The men moved forward, but they did not converge on Ragnar. Many hands suddenly closed on Athelstan’s arms and hauled him to his feet. He gasped at the painful dig of fingers in his biceps, but, truly, he’d been expecting something of this nature since Ragnar first gave him the undyed tunic. He was not surprised.

Ragnar was. The earl sprang to his feet as the men hauled Athelstan past him, but they did not stop until they were close enough to shove Athelstan against the heavy table. He caught himself on his hands and swallowed a grunt. “What is this?” Ragnar cried.

“This is your punishment,” the high priest told him calmly, “If your food offerings had been befouled, you would eat of the rot. This man is unwilling. What is there to do but make you taste of his unwillingness?”

Athelstan did not understand, but he had no time to ask questions. Hard hands were ripping the tunic from him, leaving him bare to the chilly air. They did not stop at that, but pushed down his loose trousers as well. He did not even think to fight until they tore his loincloth away, and by then it was too little too late.

“No.” Ragnar’s voice was firm and rising in urgency. “You cannot do this.”

“Can’t we?”

“This punishment is not his to bear. It’s like you said, _I_ offered him. _I_ brought him here through deceit and treachery. The crime was mine. The penalty ought to fall on _me._ ”

“It does,” the priest answered coldly, “This will cause _you_ pain, as perhaps nothing else would. This guilt is the punishment you have earned.”

“This man has done nothing! You call this my punishment, but make him bear the weight? And you call _me_ cruel?”

Ropes were drawn tight around Athelstan’s wrists. He struggled and kicked to no avail, but the men did not strike him. With unyielding hands, they forced him against the altar face first. “We are merely doing before us all what you would have done by deception,” the priest said, “And we will be more merciful than you. You would have forced him to the altar and taken his very life.” Athelstan was suddenly struck by a remembered scripture: the prophet Nathan’s curse on King David. _“For you did it secretly, but I will do this thing before all Israel and before the sun.”_ He had a niggling suspicion that he knew what they meant by _“taste of his unwillingness.”_

He redoubled his struggles. “No,” he hissed as they forced him down on his stomach. The edge of the table was hard and cold against his thighs. “No. No. Not this.”

“This is no justice,” Ragnar said with a hint of desperation in his voice, “I cannot stop you from doing as you will, but I will not participate in this farce.”

“What will it take,” the priest snarled, “For you to learn humility?” He made a short gesture with his hand and suddenly both Ragnar and Athelstan jumped as Bjorn yelped and Gyda screamed. Craning his neck to look back, Athelstan saw a guard dragging Bjorn forward by the wrist. Lagertha had him by the shoulders, and when the warrior did not release him, she kicked the man hard in the knee. Rollo sprang to her side and they formed a little unit, with Ragnar’s wife and his brother trying to keep their bodies between the priests’ men and the children. Ragnar seemed frozen in place. “What will it take to get through to you?” The high priest called out over the sudden clamor, “Must it be more sacrifice? Shall blood be shed to cover up your lies? Theirs? Yours? His?”

“Ragnar!” Lagertha all but screamed as swords came in line with her throat.

“Don’t be a fool, brother!” Rollo cried out.

“Alright!” The room fell suddenly silent at Ragnar’s voice. He stood perfectly still. His face was expressionless, but his eyes burned. “Alright.”

“What do you mean by ‘alright’?” the high priest prompted.

Ragnar drew a quick, angry breath, then mastered himself. “I accept your judgment upon me,” he said evenly, “I will do as you ask.” He met Athelstan’s eyes for one brief moment, then looked away, as he’d been looking away all week. The ropes at Athelstan’s wrists were secured to the end of the table and the men pinning him slowly stepped back.

The high priest waved a hand, and the rest of the warriors retreated a few steps. Ragnar’s family stayed huddled in a tight knot. Gyda’s face was hidden in Lagertha’s dress. Ragnar stepped close to the high priest and lowered his voice, but not so much that Athelstan missed what he said. “I accept your judgment,” he repeated, “But, must we do this in front of my children?”

“I see no children here,” the other man answered, “Your son bears an arm band in your service. Your daughter is a woman blessed by Freya. Both have much to learn from your error.”

Ragnar’s fists clenched helplessly. He was boxed in, defeated. He could be a dangerous man when cornered, but not with his children’s lives hanging in the balance. He would defend them first.

He approached Athelstan and laid a hand on his shoulder. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You know what they want me to do?”

Athelstan drew a shuddering breath. He knew. He was about to be raped by the person most important to him in this world. But, what was there to do? What was his body when weighed against the children’s lives? Nothing. There was nothing to do. Nothing but agree. “I understand,” he whispered in a voice that was almost steady, “You have to protect your family.”

Ragnar’s fingers tightened. “I have to protect my family.” He stepped away and turned to the high priest. “Have you anything to prepare him with?”

Silence.

“So be it.” He returned to Athelstan’s side and ran a hand down his back, his touch achingly gentle. “It will be alright, my friend,” he said at a bare whisper, “I won’t cause any more pain than I must. Don’t fight me. And don’t _think._ It will be over soon.” A second hand spread over Athelstan’s back, and it was all he could do not to press into it. As Ragnar stroked over him, massaging a tense muscle here and there, Athelstan’s eyes filled. He hid his face against the table. What hurt the most, really, was how much this touch, this gentleness, was _wanted._ He’d never yielded to Ragnar’s occasional advances, too afraid of disappointing God by breaking his vows. His desires, though, would never be so easily disciplined. He had lain awake at night, thinking about those callused hands, imagining what it would be like to lean into their wandering touch. Now, he was suddenly free of vows and allegiances—as close to paganism as he had ever been, whatever their priests might say—and yet, his chance to say _yes_ was cruelly taken from him. He would never have a first time—not with Ragnar.

Though he managed to stay silent, his breaths were coming in short, desperate gasps. Ragnar sensed the change and leaned over him. “It’s alright,” he murmured, rubbing the back of Athelstan’s neck, “It’s alright.” His hands slid down Athelstan’s sides and settled on his ass. Slowly and carefully, he spread his cheeks and ran his thumbs down the crevice between them. Athelstan couldn’t help but jerk away when one rough thumb brushed gently over his hole. Ragnar stilled him and rubbed more firmly until Athelstan forced the muscles in his shoulder and back to unclench.

One of Ragnar’s hands disappeared for a moment, then returned, slick with spit. A wet finger circled his hole for a minute, then pushed in gently. It hurt more than he expected it to. Athelstan gasped at the unaccustomed burn, but managed to keep his hips still. Ragnar’s hand did not move for what felt like a long time. He bent over Athelstan and pressed a kiss into his hair. Athelstan felt the roughness of coarse linen against his back and felt his nakedness all the more. “Relax,” Ragnar whispered, “Relax.”

Perhaps he did, though Athelstan couldn’t remember doing it. At any rate, Ragnar began to move, the tiny thrusts of his hand making the burn worse. He retreated for a moment and Athelstan heard him spit. The finger returned, wetter, but firmer. When Ragnar switched to two fingers, the stretch and sting were almost unbearable. Athelstan could not quite swallow a keen of pain. Ragnar seemed about to shush him, then thought better of it. “Cry out if you must,” he said softly, “It might help.” His words made Athelstan grit his teeth and silence himself as Ragnar slowly stretched him open. When the other man added a third finger, he did not make a sound.

The pain did recede, a little. If Athelstan closed his eyes and tried to forget where he was and what was being done to him, it became bearable. But, he couldn’t hide from reality. The priests were getting impatient. The warriors’ hands were on their swords. Athelstan could feel Ragnar pressed against him, clothed hips against bare thighs, and he could feel that he wasn’t . . . ready. The earl’s breaths were coming in short, stuttered gasps, and his eyes were flicking around the room, landing on the priests, the warriors, his children . . . He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t do this and it _had_ to be done.

Athelstan turned his head to rest his cheek on the table and looked up at him with one eye. “Ragnar,” he whispered, “Look at _me._ ” The northman obeyed, and the conflict in his face almost undid his resolve. He forced his eyes to soften, forced the corners of his mouth to curve. “It’s alright,” he breathed, looking up at him, “It’s alright. There’s only you and me here. Just you and me.”

Ragnar seemed beyond words. He leaned down and kissed Athelstan’s brow reverently. His free hand trailed down his side. His hips moved slowly against him. Somehow, Athelstan kept his face steady, even when Ragnar reached back to fumble at his clothes. He wouldn’t have looked away, but Ragnar’s hand came up to cup his cheek and gently turn his head towards the table. He closed his eyes and took a cleansing breath.

The hand against his hip was tender, but when he felt something warm and slicked but impossibly large bumping at his hole, he could not help but fight it. His hips twitched away involuntarily. Ragnar braced him with both hands and leaned over him, pressing closer like a living blanket. He pressed a kiss to the back of Athelstan’s neck. “Don’t think.”

He breached him in one hard push. Athelstan let out a half-strangled cry and clutched at his bindings so hard he felt the rope burn his wrists and palms. Ragnar made soothing noises and pressed another kiss to his skin, but he did not stop. His hips drove forward, slowly but inexorably, until he was flush against Athelstan, their bodies touching from knees to shoulders.

For one horrible moment, Athelstan wished they would have just killed him. It might have hurt less. Ragnar stayed still for what felt like an eternity, but it helped little. He forgot to breathe until Ragnar told him to. As he panted for breath, his mind spun in useless circles. He’d seen men do this; Ragnar’s people were not shy about sex, as a rule, and many seemed to bed members of either sex indiscriminately. He’d always ducked his head and turned away, his face flaming at the unabashed fornication, but it had never been _like this._ No man or woman had ever screamed like he wanted to—like they were being split in two. Something was wrong. The spit was too little or the preparation was too brief or Athelstan simply didn’t understand what he was supposed to be doing.

The trouble, of course, was that it was _all_ wrong. They were vulnerable—exposed before gods and men and children. Swords waited, hungry for blood should Ragnar falter. Athelstan wanted to pray, but he’d been stripped even of that—first made a traitor to his own god and then roundly rejected by Ragnar’s. He was an orphan.

“Ragnar . . .” The name was a hoarse whisper, but at least it wasn’t a scream. “Ragnar . . .”

A soft hand carded through his hair. “Athelstan. I’m here.”

“Ragnar . . .” Perhaps this was the only prayer that mattered—this one name, the only thing in this wretched situation that felt _right._

“I’m here.” The hands on him were gentle. The body against his was warm. The voice that whispered in his ear was soft. Athelstan felt something unclench in his chest, like a knot slowly worked free. The sensation crept through his body, its warmth dispelling the chill of shame, relaxing him in body and mind. The pain began to recede. 

Ragnar stayed still for a few more heartbeats, while Athelstan focused on the warm breaths on his neck. Then, he tried a small thrust. Athelstan could not quite swallow a small mewl, but the motion did not make it worse—not by much. Ragnar thrust again, then again. He kept his movements slow, but increased the length of his strokes. Athelstan focused on breathing. He knew from the slow rhythm that this would not be over soon. He’d spent too much time trying not to watch while Ragnar fucked—the man’s movements were familiar. The burn had faded, but never really disappeared. All the same, he could feel his body surrendering—opening in ways he hadn’t known it could.

When Ragnar straightened, Athelstan tried not to feel bereft at the loss of warmth over his back. The other man used his new angle to increase the length and strength of his strokes. His thumb rubbed circles into Athelstan’s hip apologetically. Athelstan knew he just wanted to finish faster. He wanted it done—they _both_ wanted it done. He tried to steady his breaths. Beneath the pain, Ragnar’s thrusts were setting off new sensations within him, like showers of sparks. It was confusing and not a little alarming.

A callused hand slid under his hip and reached for his cock, but Athelstan jerked in his bonds and shook his head. “No,” he whispered, “Not like this. Please.”

Ragnar hesitated. The hand that meant to stroke him smoothed over his abdomen instead. “Alright.” Mercifully, he asked no questions.

As it went on Athelstan tried to lose himself in feeling. He tried to sink into the strange and heady sensation of being _filled_ and _possessed,_ but couldn’t quite manage it. Pain and shame retreated a little, but never enough that he could declare victory over them. Worse, he could tell that Ragnar was doing little better. The other man made no sound, but Athelstan could sense his tension.

Ragnar couldn’t be allowed to break. Athelstan didn’t know what would become of him if he did. So, he did what he had to do. Tentatively, he canted his hips back to meet the next thrust. Ragnar made a strangled, involuntary noise. Athelstan repeated the motion. Their rhythm faltered for a moment, as each tried to follow the other’s lead, before settling once again. Ragnar released one shuddering breath and then another as if he’d been suffocating and was finally free. His thrusts grew less controlled. He was panting and grunting as he drove into him. Athelstan tried to gather up all his discomfort and anger and shame and unwanted arousal, tried to bury it all beneath that one prayer that meant purity.

_“Ragnar . . .”_

And the other man gasped and slammed forward one more time, pressing deep within him and staying there. _“Athelstan . . .”_

Neither of them spoke above a whisper.

Athelstan felt a wet trickle touch his skin. Belatedly, he realized it was over. _Oh,_ his mind supplied dimly, _I survived._ He wasn’t sure, yet, how to feel about that.

Ragnar pulled out in one uncomfortable tug, but did not retreat immediately. He stayed bent over Athelstan, stroking his sweat-touched back. Athelstan sensed that he would have liked to stay there forever, but it was not to be. The earl reluctantly straightened and adjusted his clothes, though he kept one possessive hand at the small of Athelstan’s back.

Athelstan lifted his head from his arms for the first time since Ragnar breached him and found that he was not looking at him. The earl’s intense eyes were fixed on the high priest. “Are the gods satisfied with my penance?”

The priest’s face was expressionless. “This time.” He drew a dagger and approached them. Ragnar moved as if to place himself between the stranger and Athelstan, but a look was enough to have him reluctantly retreating. The priest placed a cool hand on top of Athelstan’s. “Don’t grieve, Christian,” he said in a solemn tone, “It was for your sake that we did this.” Fortunately, he did not seem to expect Athelstan to respond. With his dagger, he cut through the rope and Athelstan was free.

He’d meant to keep his feet—to stand tall so that the priests wouldn’t see weakness and Ragnar wouldn’t worry—but his body had other ideas. As soon as the bindings at his wrists slid away, Athelstan slumped, then slid off the altar, all the way to the floor. His insides ached—a dull pain that turned to throbbing—and he did not think seed was the only warm fluid leaking from his opening. He curled in on himself, arms wrapping around his knees, trying to hide his nakedness. The high priest stared down at him, his expression impassive. “This matter is finished.”

He turned away.

Ragnar waited only another half second before kneeling at his side and placing a bracing hand at his shoulder. “Athelstan. Are you alright?”

He drew a shuddering breath and did not respond directly. “I’m bleeding, aren’t I?”

Ragnar’s expression was all the answer he needed.

Tears long stifled would no longer be denied. He felt his resolve crack and crumble while his face crumpled.

Ragnar rubbed the back of his neck. “It is not so bad. You’re alright. You will be well, soon.”

Athelstan did not answer. He squeezed his treacherous eyes shut and focused on drawing breath with lungs that felt insufficient to the task. Somehow, he still heard the light footsteps. Lagertha. She passed Ragnar the discarded tunic and pants. “Is he alright?”

“What do you think?” Ragnar snapped. Then, he stopped himself and swallowed hard. His hands trembled a little, but he reached out to pull the tunic over Athelstan’s head, dressing him as if he were a child.

“Is there nothing I can do?”

“You can send Rollo. We need to get him away from here.”

As Ragnar gently maneuvered him into the trousers, she retreated and Ragnar’s brother approached. “Help me get him up,” the earl said tersely. Rollo hauled Athelstan to his feet. “Gently,” Ragnar scolded. Athelstan wished he could find the energy to tell Ragnar that it didn’t matter, but he was wholly drained—wrecked. He could do nothing but hang between their shoulders, barely moving his feet as they half-carried him back up the aisle and down the outside stairs. Though it was still dark, a drum was beginning to beat.

“Back to the house,” Ragnar ordered, “It’s the nearest we have to privacy.” Rollo didn’t respond. Athelstan could feel suppressed anger in the hike of his shoulders. He took note of little else. People were beginning to move through Uppsala, preparing their hearts for what was to come, but Athelstan took no notice of anyone until they crossed the threshold of the small house given to Ragnar’s people. Siggy was awake and standing by the hearth with Floki and Helga. The older woman looked relieved to see them, then alarmed to see the state of them. Ragnar and Rollo carried Athelstan past her, making not for his own narrow pallet, but for Ragnar and Lagertha’s bed in a shadowed corner that was almost private.

“What’s happened?” Siggy asked quietly, trailing after them. Ragnar said nothing. It fell to Rollo to explain, in clipped, angry words, what had occurred in the temple. Haraldson’s wife expressed no disbelief. Any surprise, she hid deep down. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Get Thyri,” Ragnar growled. She turned and departed without a word.

Ragnar laid Athelstan down on the furs. Floki hovered a few paces behind, like a bird about to take flight. “I don’t understand,” the shipbuilder was saying, “What god would ask such a thing, and for what purpose?”

“This has nothing to do with gods,” Rollo all but snarled, “This was about the priests putting my brother in his place.”

With gentle hands that stood in marked contrast to his stormy face, Ragnar reached for the waistband of Athelstan’s rough trousers. Athelstan could not have resisted him if he wanted to.

“They could not touch Ragnar,” Rollo continued, “Not an earl, not even an upstart one-time farmer. But, those priests have a way of knowing men’s weaknesses.”

Ragnar slid the trousers down, being careful to preserve Athelstan’s modesty with the long tunic. The seat of the pants bore a small stain that was dark red. Floki hissed. “I will fetch a salve.” Rollo turned away as well, and quite suddenly Athelstan was alone with Ragnar.

He forced himself to lift his head and look past him. On the other side of the room, Lagertha was comforting the children. Gyda was weeping, and even Bjorn looked upset. Ragnar followed his gaze and then bowed his head. “How is your pain?”

Athelstan drew a slow, careful breath. “Fading,” he said quietly.

“Athelstan, I didn’t . . .”

“Don’t.” His voice was a little strained. “Don’t say it. I know that you didn’t know that would happen. Knowing couldn’t have stopped it.”

Ragnar’s jaw tightened. “All the same.” He sighed. “I am . . . sorry,” he said, “For . . . for all of it.”

“I know.”

Ragnar stared at his lap. “You saved my children today,” he said at last.

Athelstan decided quite suddenly that he was tired of Ragnar avoiding his gaze. He reached out, caught his chin, and turned it. “I would die for your children—for Bjorn and Gyda. I expect you knew that.”

A small, sad smile played at the corner of Ragnar’s mouth. He nodded.

He was spared from answering further by Floki’s return. The man bore a thick, brown paste and a tea that smelled of willow. Athelstan forced himself to down the bitter drink. At Ragnar’s urging, he spread his legs and submitted to the other man’s touch one more time. The salve cooled and soothed where it touched. Ragnar’s hands were gentle, as if Athelstan were aged paper that might crumble under his touch. They did not speak again until it was done.

Athelstan smoothed his tunic down and looked behind him at the shuttered window. A faint, gray sky was visible through the cracks. “It’s nearly dawn.”

“Yes.” Behind him, Siggy returned with her daughter in tow. “I am sorry, but I must go now. Thyri will stay with you. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“But you have the sacrifices to think of.”

“Yes.”

“Lief . . .”

“Priest.” Ragnar cupped his face and leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “All sorrows are fading.”

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Thryi tried, but when Athelstan rose in Ragnar’s wake, she could not stop him. Something that might be called _purpose_ was washing over him, dulling his pains and making his grief seem less crushing. He shook the woman off and dressed himself in his own clothes.

Ragnar said nothing when Athelstan appeared at his shoulder. The man was wrapped around his children, as if they could be snatched away at any moment. They watched the bleeding in silence.

Lief died well. He had a smile and a nod for everyone, even Athelstan. He did not seem to suffer, at least not for very long. The tears Athelstan shed felt holy, for they were given for another and not for himself. Later, as they hung the body—the bodies—Athelstan could only stare, even as the others dispersed. A great stillness had come over him, quieting all his clamoring fears. He knew, now, what it was to be sacrificed for another. And he knew what it was to see another sacrificed for him.

But, though pain had become a close companion, he could not have said which hurt more.

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Reviews and concrit are appreciated.


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